


Muza

by sara_holmes



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Memes, Awesome Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, M/M, Service Dogs, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 23:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12970947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/pseuds/sara_holmes
Summary: Where Bucky decides that he does not have time for looking after a puppy because he can barely look after himself. Clint has other ideas.





	Muza

**Author's Note:**

> This was so much fun! I worked with the wonderful [Bexlie-Draws](https://bexlie-draws.tumblr.com/) and we flailed about Winterhawk a lot and came up with this joint enterprise! Artwork is [here](https://bexlie-draws.tumblr.com/post/168368923470/my-contribution-to-the-winterhawkbigbang-inspired) and it is amazing and adorable, please go give it some love!

_‘You have to come and see this.’_

Seeing as he’s mid-workout and just about working up a sweat, Bucky would normally ignore his phone in favour of more reps. However, the text-tone that disturbs him is the one that Clint personally assigned to his own number - an air horn with a man bellowing T-T-T-TARGET for no reasons obvious to anyone sane - and so Bucky automatically puts the weights down and fumbles for his phone.

“See what?” he mutters, frowning and setting the phone aside again. It’s not that he doesn’t care about the team getting back from their mission, but maybe he’s still a little bitter about being left behind. Going to see them when they’re all hopped up on adrenaline and saying things like _‘good job!’_ will just make him more annoyed and sour than he already is. He gets it, he understands why he’s not fit for active duty, but-

‘ _BUCKY I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING COME TO THE HANGAR’_

He hisses out an annoyed breath between his teeth, picking up the damn phone. If it were anyone but Clint trying to tell him what to do and where to go, he’d probably tell them to fuck off: his therapist and Steve can both attest to that. He’s about to toss his phone aside when it beeps again, buzzing against his metal fingers. He opens whatsapp and then does an honest to god double-take, looking at the picture he’s just been sent, which appears to show a fucking _alligator_ on the floor of the jet.

“What the hell?” he says, bringing the phone closer to his nose, like he’s short sighted or something. Yep, definitely an alligator. Though whether it’s real or not is yet to be determined. Considering it’s got its jaws held shut with what looks like electrical tape, he’s got a horrible feeling that it is indeed alive and snapping.

Abandoning his workout, he heads up to the hangar. The elevator slides open and he steps out into what can only be described as chaos.

Sam is the first person he spots, standing by the door with no less than three macaws sitting on his shoulders, all brilliantly blue and yellow. One keeps whistling loud enough to make Sam wince, but he seems rather too thrilled for a man who is undoubtedly gonna end up deaf and covered in bird shit. As well as the birds, there are three puppies gambolling around his feet, all yapping and tripping and having an absolute blast.

“What the fuck,” Bucky says no no-one. A lone kitten toddles its way down the open ramp of the jet, mewing indignantly.

“Bucky!”

Clint appears and as always, Bucky feels some of the tension that he perpetually carries vanish, like the mere sight of Clint has him relaxing. Jogging down the ramp, Clint stoops to scoop the kitten up, dropping it into the box he's carrying. He heads over to Bucky, nearly tripping over the puppies as he goes. “Look!”

Bucky can’t not look. He peers into the box and finds a writhing mass of fluff and stubby tails. Five - no, six - kittens, all blue eyed and yowling at him like everything’s his fault.

“We rescued them,” Clint grins, eyes sparkling. “AIM were experimenting on them, the bastards.”

From the jet comes a loud screaming sound and a burst of laughter. Thor appears, carrying another meowing box.

“So you bought them all here?” Bucky asks, incredulously.

“Well the place was on fire, we didn’t have much choice,” Clint shrugs. “Want a kitten?”

“Do I want-?” Bucky repeats. “No I don’t want a goddamn kitten. What happened with AIM?”

“Well we arrested a few, handed them over,” Clint says. Another macaw soars from the back of the jet, swooping around to land on Sam’s shoulder.  “The animals are taking more time to sort.”

“Not even you would have left them in that place,” Sam says, walking over. The parrots sway with every step he takes, like giant feathery shoulderpads. “It was hell.”

“This is hell,” Bucky points out. One of the puppies is now gnawing on his boot, trying to yank his laces free. He wants to shake it off but he’s a little scared of sending the damn thing flying. His press is already bad but ‘Winter Soldier kicks puppy’ could perhaps be considered a brand new low.

There’s a thud from the jet and then all at once everyone seems to hurriedly disembark. Tony has a giant python wrapped around the shoulders of the Iron Man suit, Natasha is carrying a fish bowl with a solitary goldfish in it, and Steve is carrying a motherfucking chimpanzee on his hip much like one would do a toddler. The chimp is chattering fretfully and clinging to Steve like it’s never going to let him go.

“So the gator doesn’t want to move and I’m not going to make him,” Tony says. “Hey, Buck, want a snake?”

“Would everyone stop offering me animals?!” Bucky exclaims, even as more puppies come to join the crowd, jumping up at his knees, all desperate scrabbling claws and furiously wagging tails. “What did you guys even do?”

“Rescued some lab animals,” Steve says easily, holding onto the chimp’s hand. Dear lord, the thing is even wearing a diaper. It screams at Bucky, baring its teeth and jumping up and down on Steve’s arm. Steve waits patiently for it to settle. “That’s just Bucky, he’s a friend, right? Calm down, buddy.”

“We should probably call the zoo,” Natasha says, peering down at the goldfish. “Though maybe we should get SHIELD to check that none of these animals are enhanced.”

“There’s a department for that?” Tony asks, laughing.

Clint and Natasha shrug in tandem. “There’s a department for everything,” Clint says.

“The kittens and puppies should be easy enough,” Sam says. “But who’s gonna want to adopt a gator?”

“He could live in the fountain in the atrium,” Steve says. “Lord knows it’s big enough.”

“Release him into the sewers,” Clint suggests.

“I’m keeping the fish,” Natasha says decisively, holding up the fishbowl and peering in, her eyes appearing eerily huge through the distortion of the water. “He’s growing on me.”

Bucky is busy watching the snake wind its way around Tony’s thigh, it’s muscular body rippling and sliding. “It’s sizing you up for a meal, Tony.”

Tony doesn’t get a chance to reply. Before he can even think of an undoubtedly witty retort, the hangar doors slide open again and there’s an ear-splitting scream. The chimp screams back and tries to clamber over Steve’s head, all four macaws take off into the air with similarly loud shrieks and the puppies start barking again, whirling around in an utter frenzy.

Only the goldfish seems unbothered.

“Pepper!” Tony calls, trying to take a step but finding that his legs have been locked in place by eighty pounds of python. “It’s okay!”

“What,” Pepper whispers, still only halfway out the elevator but completely and utterly horrified. “Is that a _chimpanzee?_ ”

“You guys are in fucking trouble,” Bucky mutters.

“Worth it,” Clint says and shoots him a wink.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later and the combined efforts of SHIELD, the Bureau for Wildlife and the staff of the Central Park Zoo have managed to clear out the majority of the menagerie. The parrots, snake and the crocodile are all swiftly taken to the zoo. Steve tells Bucky that a nice lady from England who runs a sanctuary is coming to pick up the chimpanzee. The fish in the bowl ends up in the communal area, apparently having been named Jaws. Once Pepper gets over the shock, she swiftly organises a charity auction for the puppies and kittens; people have twenty-four hours to bid and then - subject to background checks and cleared funds - an Avenger will personally hand them over a bona-fide furry rescuee.

Bucky leaves them to it. Steve seems happy to babysit the chimpanzee until the lady comes to pick it up and Clint is neck-deep in kittens and loving it. Bucky doesn’t quite know how to deal with that, because he’s seen Clint on mission, killing his way through aliens and Hydra agents alike, and now here he is being gentle and kind and it’s doing strange things to Bucky’s brain.

Bucky determinedly ignores that, as well as the animals and the bitter ache in his belly that knows it probably would have been ridiculous fun to storm that AIM base. Maybe fun isn’t the right word for it. Satisfying, maybe.

Well, what does it matter anyway. He’s not cleared for duty and not even being Steve’s best friend can get him around it.

 

* * *

 

 

The charity auction goes off without a hitch. The press love it and everyone is happy. The internet is swamped with pictures of the Avengers with cute animals, and they raise literally hundreds of thousands of dollars. Bucky avoids the whole shebang, because he’s not a hero and he’s not about to start pretending he is.

The only person who gets it is Clint. He doesn’t sigh or roll his eyes or look disappointed in Bucky’s vanishing act, he just finds him afterwards and passes over a starbucks cup that’s got _Hawkeye_ scrawled on the side in marker.

“Yeah, I’m a piece of trash ex-Carnie with good aim,” he says like it’s obvious. “I’m in a constant state of waiting for someone to figure out I’m an imposter.”

Bucky tells Clint that he’s not an imposter, that in Bucky’s opinion he’s definitely qualified as a hero. Clint just grins and says that Bucky’s brain has clearly been fried one too many times for him to make that kind of call.

Bucky just smiles and tells him that he’s probably right.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the morning after an awful night’s sleep and Bucky’s in the gym once again, lying on his back on the mats and reading depressing Russian fiction. He’s only two pages in when he’s rudely disturbed by the Avengers alarm blaring _again_. He sighs, bringing his copy of Crime and Punishment closer to his nose. After about thirty seconds it shuts off and he goes back to pretending that he doesn’t live with a bunch of heroes that are all much better people than he is.

The charade is ruined by his phone ringing; the caller ID says Steve and so he picks it up.

“Buck, I gotta-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says quickly. “Stay safe. Go do Captainy things. Punch a Nazi, protect freedom and all that shit.”

“I’ll call you later when I know more,” Steve says. “Will you be okay?”

“I’ll call you if I’m not,” Bucky says, even though he’d rather cut off his other arm than disturb Steve when Steve is out there doing good and saving people. “Text me later.”

“Will do,” Steve says and then he’s gone, leaving Bucky alone with his book and his thoughts.

He thinks that’ll be it, that he’ll be left alone in the Tower while everyone else goes off, but around half an hour later Clint slinks into the gym, fully suited up and with his quiver on his back. He’s looking somewhere between guilty and worried which immediately sets off alarm bells in Bucky’s mind. Knowing Clint, he could have done anything from drinking the last of the Italian roast and not replacing it, to setting fire to Tony’s lab.

“Okay I made an oopsie and I need you to help me out,” Clint says without preamble. Bucky appreciates the direct approach so lowers his book down onto his chest, lifting an eyebrow in question.

“Aren’t you meant to be Assembling?”

“We are, I just was in the middle of trying to fix something and the alarm went off so now I can’t fix the thing.”

“Fix it when you get back?”

Clint grimaces. “Not an option. Wait there.”

He vanishes back behind the door. Bucky sighs and pushes himself up, his book falling to the mat with a thump. Odds of something being on fire shortened, then.

He sits cross-legged, waiting patiently. One minute passes and he picks his book back up, half-heartedly trying to find his page. At the five-minute mark, he’s re-reading the last page, trying to recall what was happening. At the seven minute mark he’s ready to give up but no sooner has he thought it then the door pushes open again. He glances up to see Clint-

“No.”

“Please,” Clint pleads, arms full of dark fur, tufty ears and big brown eyes.

“Absolutely not.”

“No but hear me out,” Clint says. “I was meant to get all the pups rounded up for the auction, yeah? So I did a great job-”

“Not good enough, clearly,” Bucky says, gesturing to the puppy in Clint’s arms.

“I know, but I swore down to Pepper and Steve that I’d got them all, and may have been kind of an asshole to Steve when he asked if I was sure, so I can’t admit he was right, because-”

“Because Steve is insufferable when he says I told you so,” Bucky sighs. Even so, he’s not getting involved with this. “Clint-”

“Just look after it until I get back?” Clint holds the puppy out to Bucky. It whimpers, tail tucked between its legs. The damn thing is near shivering, unlike the others that had been bounding around when they’d disembarked. “Please? Please? Pretty please?”

It’s the beseeching look on Clint’s face that does him in. Clint has always had time for Bucky: when he first arrived at the tower and was a twitchy antisocial mess, when he doesn’t feel like talking, when he does feel like talking – Clint has been there for him as much as Steve has.

Somehow, Clint can sense that Bucky is caving. “Look,” he presses. “It’s a cute one. And it's well behaved. Just nervous.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Bucky mutters, and Clint takes that as a yes.

“Thanks, I owe you one, please don’t tell Steve.”

He presses the puppy towards Bucky, who takes it from him and sets its tiny body down in the cradle of his crossed legs. Still shaking, it hunkers down, like all the evils in the world can be held back by the strength of Bucky’s thighs.

“You owe me ten million favours,” Bucky says. “Go. Avenge.”

“I’ll pay you pay in pizza and sexual favours,” Clint shouts as he’s jogging towards the door. “Be good!”

Bucky’s jaw drops and he simply stares as Clint vanishes. His hearing works just fine so he knows what Clint just said, but he can’t quite believe it.

It’s just a joke, right?

He’s distracted by the puppy, who whines and starts to shiver even more violently. “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters again, scowling down at the quivering lump of black and tan fur. He’s not the caring type, and these days he has enough trouble looking after himself, let alone another living creature.

“Jarvis,” he says slowly, reaching for his phone. “I’m gonna need some help.”

 

* * *

 

 

He carries the pup one handed up to his room, where it promptly hides under his bed. Bucky tries to get it out; he cups his hand around it and slides its furry body along the polished floor but as soon he gets it just about clear of the bed it clambers back over his hand and goes straight under again.

“Fuck,” he curses, kneeling down and trying to peer into the dark space. “AIM must have done a number on you, pal.”

 _Just like Hydra did to you,_ a voice in his head points out. It sounds suspiciously like the SHIELD appointed therapist that talks at him for an hour every Thursday, so he ignores it. He gives up on trying to extricate the puppy, calling it some choice words in the silence of his own head and then goes for his phone.

“Jarvis, find out what breed that thing is,” he says into his phone. “And how old it is.”

There’s a pause and then his phone beeps. “It is a guess, at best,” Jarvis says from his phone, because he knows Bucky doesn’t like the whole ‘disembodied voice from the ceiling’ shtick. “I believe taking the puppy to a vetenarian would be your best choice.”

“What, take it outside?” Bucky says. “It won’t come out from under the damn bed, what do you mean outside.”

He peers at his phone and sees a website called _dogtime.com_ being displayed. He scrolls down a little and his brows shoot up. “A German shepherd? I thought they were all sharp teeth and brave as balls?” He doesn’t really want an answer so isn’t bothered when Jarvis keeps silent. He scrolls further, reading all sorts of stats about weight and size and behaviour and trainability. Five-star intelligence, apparently. And five-star affection. And also five-star potential for nipping, which probably means his metal fingers are in for a treat.

“Shall I find local vetenarians, Sergeant?”

“Nope,” Bucky says, still engrossed with reading. “I’ll figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ten hours later and the puppy has peed under the bed, pooped on the rug, not touched the water or chunks of burger that Bucky has left for it and is still shaking.

Bucky stands there, rubbing his head in frustration. “Jarvis,” he says grimly, mentally cursing Clint and puppies and AIM. “Find me a damn vet.”

“As you wish.”

Bucky crouches down and then goes onto his belly, lying prone and sticking his hand under the bed. “Come on dipshit,” he mutters, using a low calm voice that he recognises as the voice Steve uses on him when he’s having a Bad Day. “Come on, I’m not gonna hurt you, come on you little bastard, we’re going out…”

He cups his hand around the pup and slides it out, deftly scooping it up with a hand under its belly as it tries to wriggle back. It’s startlingly warm and the sort of soft that he’s never felt in his life, and a frisson of fear works its way down him spine as he realises just how squishy and vulnerable the pup is.

It’s whining kicks up a notch and it tries to wriggle free. Thinking fast, Bucky does the only thing that makes any sense: he unzips his hoodie a little way and slips the puppy into the front of it, zipping it back up with one hand and cradling the puppy-lump with the other. It settles against his stomach, still shivering a little but thankfully quiet.

“Alright you fluff covered piece of trash,” he says, irritable at both the puppy and his complete inability to look after it in any way shape or form. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Mister Barnes?”

Bucky gets up from his space in-between a woman with a hissing basket and a man with a slobbering bulldog, thankful that it’s finally his turn. He’s been at the clinic for over an hour waiting to be seen, and the meowing and barking and the screeching of that one goddamn parakeet in the corner has him on fucking edge. It’s bad enough that he’s considered both a) leaving the puppy there and walking out and b) calling Steve.

Instead, he’d managed to keep his irritation and panic at bay by silent counting up and down in Russian, and feeling the shifting of the puppy against his belly. It’s too warm and he’s a little bit worried in case the damn thing tries to pee on him, but it does weirdly help him keep calm. Besides, the sweatshirt he’s wearing is technically Clint’s, given to Bucky months ago when he was having a Bad Day and couldn’t stop shivering. So if it gets peed on, that’d probably serve Clint right.

Bucky goes through into the consulting room and a nurse smiles quizzically at him. He just huffs and unzips his jacket, fishing out the puppy and depositing it on the chrome table. It starts to whine again, looking around and lowering its fluffy body to the table, ears flat and tail tucked between its legs. Its eyes find Bucky and it fixes him with an oddly betrayed stare. All in all, it looks utterly pathetic.

“So who have we got here?” the nurse asks, voice gentle and soothing. “Aren’t you handsome? Yes, you are!”

“Um, a pal of mine found it,” Bucky says. “Asked me to look after it.”

“So they’ve been abandoned?” the nurse says, gently holding a hand out towards the pup. “Have you given them a name?”

“Uh,” Bucky says, feeling oddly like she’ll judge him for saying no. “ _мусор_ ,” he says, the Russian slipping out before he can think of anything better.

“Muza?” the nurse repeats, frowning as she butchers the pronunciation, missing half the sounds and mangling the ones she does get.

Still, Bucky’s not a complete asshole so he just shrugs. ”Yeah, Muza. Let’s roll with that.”

“Okay, let’s give Muza here a look over then…”

Twenty minutes later and Bucky is told he’s now the proud owner of an eight-week-old, male German shepherd pup, who is very nervous but in good health. And who apparently needs a hundred and thirty-five bucks’ worth of vaccinations and fifty bucks worth of microchip. He’s got his wallet in hand and is scaring the nurse by muttering curse words in Russian when his phone rings. He pulls it out and curses more when he sees it’s Clint.

“You!” he snaps, answering it. “You have left me with a shitting, pissing ball of fur that has just cost me near enough to two hundred bucks!”

The nurse flees.

“Oh man, is it still freaking out?” Clint says. “Damn.”

“Where are you?” Bucky demands. “Come back and take it back.”

“I can’t, I’m halfway across the Pacific,” Clint whispers. “I’m having to call you from the damn quinjet toilet.”

“I am not cut out for this,” Bucky hisses.

“It’s a _puppy_ ,” Clint says, and then he yelps as there’s a thudding sound, distant over the line. Someone banging on the bathroom door, no doubt. “Hang on, Buck.” His voice goes distant and muffled, like he’s trying to cover up the mouthpiece. “Leave me alone I’m taking a piss! Okay – I’m on the phone. Bucky. What? We’re having phone sex, now go away.” His voice comes back clearer. “Buck, you still there?”

Bucky takes a moment to blink. “Phone sex?” he echoes.

“Well, if you want, but aren’t you at the veterinarian's?”

“I will kill you,” Bucky informs Clint, and then hangs up on him. He pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment and then drops his hand, looking at the puppy who is still cowering on the table. Bucky counts silently to ten and then steps forwards so he’s pressed against the table. The dog immediately turns so its back is pressed against Bucky’s jacket, obviously trying to take refuge against Bucky’s body.

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Bucky says, feeling a little forlorn. Seeing that little shivering body is now just making him sad. He sighs and rests his metal hand against the puppy’s back, and it turns and presses its nose against his hand, hiding under his palm.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warns the puppy, but it just shuffles closer.

The door opens and the nurse returns, accompanied by a man who Bucky assumes is the vet. He just sighs and nods, not even giving them time to speak.

“Give it all the shots and give me all the leaflets,” Bucky says. “And I’m gonna need something to feed it.”

 

* * *

 

 

He heads home as the city has gone dark, the daylight giving way to the orange glow of headlights and streetlamps. Mindful of the amount of money he’s just blown on a damn dog that isn’t even his, Bucky takes the subway back towards Avengers tower, rather than a cab. It’s crowded and noisy and he hates it. He’s got a backpack full of puppy food and the pup itself falls asleep mid-journey, it’s body slumped against Bucky’s and it’s chin up along his chest, it’s nose just peeping out of the top of his jacket. He rests his metal head against its back and carefully unzips his jacket a little more so it doesn’t overheat.

“Muza,” he mutters, shaking his head then going back to staring out of the window at the blackness beyond, the reflections of his fellow passengers painted on the rattling glass.

 

* * *

 

By the time he arrives back at the tower, he’s exhausted. He heads straight up to his rooms, extracting the sleeping puppy and placing it on the end of his bed. Leaving the bedroom door open, he heads back to the lounge to unpack the food and sets down newspaper like the vet had suggested, before shuffling through to his bedroom-

“Oh fuck right off,” he sighs, slumping against the doorway. Muza is still fast asleep but has somehow migrated to his pillow, its feet twitching as it dreams. Its ears are flopped over and its soft round belly rising and falling with its breaths.

He pulls his phone out, snaps a picture and sends it to Clint. Clint texts back almost immediately, with a heart emoji and then _‘knew you’d be a sucker for the cute.’_  

Bucky rolls his eyes. Texts back, _‘if it pisses on my bed i’m turning it into a hat.’_

He throws his phone aside, strips down to his boxers and clambers onto his bed. Pushes the pillow aside with the dog still sleeping on it, settles his head down on the bare mattress and goes to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to the sound of whining and the sensation of a wet nose nuzzling at his ear. He goes very tense for a second but miraculously doesn’t throw himself off the bed away from the source. “Oh god damn,” Bucky groans. He sits up and watches as Muza wriggles off his pillow, trying to clamber into his lap. It whines at him and he automatically reaches down to settle his hand across Muza’s back. To his shock it immediately stops whining, turning its head to lick briefly at his fingers before huffing out a little puppy-sigh and slumping against his knees.

Distracted by the tiny little affectionate lick, Bucky fumbles for his phone. He’s got a missed call from Steve and three messages from Clint: one asks how he is, the second is a picture of a sunrise across some far-flung city, the third is a link to a website which details how to train your puppy.

Bucky scowls, texting back one handed. _‘I’m not training it, I’m not keeping it.’_

He shifts Muza off of his legs so he can clamber into a pair of sweatpants, pocketing his phone. Muza follows, tripping over his ungainly puppy paws and following Bucky to the door. The moment he’s in Bucky’s lounge he heads straight to the newspaper and does his puppy-business right in the middle of it. “Thank fuck,” Bucky says, mouth hitching in a relieved smile. He waits for Muza to be done, cleans up the newspaper and lays fresh. As he does, Muza sits by his feet, watching him and occasionally glancing around the room.

“You’re like a shadow,” Bucky mutters as Muza follows him out of the room, whining and keeping so close to his feet that he’s likely to be tripped over. “Christ, Muza.”

Muza doesn't seem to give a shit, so Bucky resigns himself to having the dog underfoot as he goes down for breakfast. Before feeding himself, he digs out a plate from the cupboard and empties a pouch of puppy-food onto it. Muza dives in, trying to lean across and wolf down the food before Bucky has even set the dish down. A lot like Clint at pizza-night, digging in before the boxes even hit the table.

Bucky calls Steve back but the call goes straight to voicemail, Steve’s voice telling the caller that he’s ‘otherwise occupied.’ He goes to put his phone away but it chirps with a text from Clint.

_‘Train it anyway he’ll be easier to rehome.’_

Bucky frowns at that. He could just put a picture of Steve with the damn dog on instagram and at least a thousand people would offer to take it in.

_‘I’ll get Steve to ask for someone to take him??’_

This time the ‘typing’ bar on his and Clint’s conversation appears and disappears no less than three times before Clint texts back.

_‘What else are you gonna do today.’_

“Well fuck you too,” Bucky says, unimpressed. He checks the calendar on his phone, notes that he's got nothing to do until his regular Thursday therapy session. Four whole days with only his own mind for company, if the others are kept away on mission. As always, the thought of being alone and yes, unsupervised makes him feel uneasy. It's hard to do the whole moving on thing when you don't trust yourself-

A high pitched yip draws his attention, breaking him out of his somewhat maudlin thoughts.

“What,” he says flatly, fixing Muza with an unimpressed stare. Muza shuffles back a few agitated steps before flopping down to sit on his butt, letting out another yipping whine, ended with the most pathetic growl. Bucky can't help it; he barks out a laugh.

“That was ridiculous,” he tells Muza, sliding off his chair to kneel on the floor. Muza promptly tries to climb onto his lap, feet sliding off of Bucky's thighs. “Jeez, look at the size of your paws,” Bucky murmurs. “If you grow into them it'll be like Steve all over again. Shrimp to super dog, huh?”

Muza rolls off his knee onto the floor, legs kicking madly and body squirming as he tries to right himself. Bucky smiles, stroking a hand down Muza’s side.

Okay, maybe he's not entirely alone.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Bucky hears from the team again three days later, Muza has learned _sit_ and _lie down_ , and they’ve just started on _stay_. He is also still stealing Bucky’s pillow to sleep on, and has also learned that Bucky’s boots are great for chewing.

“You are a pest,” Bucky says, exasperated as he tries to tug his laces out of Muza’s mouth. “Give it up, come on.” Muza growls, shaking his head back and forth as he worries the laces. His tail is wagging madly and his eyes are bright and alert, a complete contrast to how he’d been when Clint had handed him over.  “Do we need to learn drop?” Bucky muses out loud, giving up on the fight as his phone starts ringing. He drops the boot and goes to pick it up, feeling his usual combination of relieved and left-out as he sees Steve’s name.

“Yo,” he says, watching Muza wrestle with the boot, trying to follow Bucky while still carrying it in his mouth. He’s craning his neck back but still isn’t really big enough for hauling combat boots around. Maybe he’d be able to manage it with Stark’s old man slippers or Steve’s sneakers that he insists he hates.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says. “How’re you holding up?”

Steve always asks and Bucky always gets annoyed with it. Well, usually. This time, he’s too busy watching Muza to be annoyed. “Yeah I’m fine,” he says. “How’s the mission?”

“Wrapping up,” Steve says simply. “We’ll be home tomorrow afternoon, all being well.”

“Good, I missed you more than life itself.”

Steve laughs. “What you been up to?”

“Keeping busy,” Bucky says, reaching behind him for the tennis ball that Muza had taken a shine to. He waves it at the pup, hoping he can barter a trade. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, all good,” Steve says. “One sprained ankle and some burns but we’re good.”

“And he got shot!” a voice distantly shouts. It sounds like Clint, and Bucky’s stomach does a happy-relieved little twist as he hears his voice. However, he’s not got time to think about that too much because if he heard correctly, then Steve is in _trouble._

“Steve?” he says, low and dangerous.

“Only a little,” Steve says hurriedly, then his voice goes distant and there’s an echoing clang, followed by laughter. “Clint, go screw!”

Bucky sighs, rubbing at his face. “You’re an asshole,” he says. “Stop getting hurt.”

“I don’t do it on purpose!” Steve says, sounding far too unconcerned. “I’m okay. When I’m back, you can see for yourself.”

“Good,” Bucky says, and then on a whim, “Hey, put Barton on, will you?”

“Sure,” Steve says. There’s a shuffling and the distant sounds of conversation, then Clint’s voice comes clear.

“Hey Buck, you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Bucky says.He tosses the tennis ball and Muza goes scampering after it, enabling Bucky to steal his boot back. “We’re both good.”

“I see what you did there,” Clint says, sounding happy. “Tell me all about it.”

“He chews my boots and has stolen my pillow and follows me everywhere,” Bucky says. “He’s pretty playful now he’s not scared.”

Clint hums at that. “Not tempted to stay as you are?” he says casually.

Bucky frowns. “No, I told you I’m not keeping him.”

“Shame,” Clint says. “We’re back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, Steve said,” Bucky says, distracted. “What do you mean, shame? You’ll get in trouble if he stays.”

“Eh, I’m always in trouble,” Clint says. “Case in point, I’m waiting until Sam realises that I left his goggles back on the beach.”

“What?!” a distant voice yells. “You had _one job_ , Clint!”

“See, I’m in trouble now,” Clint says to Bucky, who is starting to laugh. “A bit more won’t hurt.”

“Sam trouble is different to Steve trouble and you know it.”

Clint laughs at that, the sound warm and happy. “True. Alright, see you tomorrow, Sunshine.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at that. “Sunshine?”

“You light up my life,” Clint informs him and Bucky laughs.

“Sure.”

“One hundred percent not joking,” Clint says. “Later.”

And he hangs up, leaving Bucky staring open mouthed at the phone. _What?_ Not joking? Clint must have hit his head or be winding him up or something because Bucky is _not_ sunshine and doesn’t light up anything. He’s more of a dark shadow that lurks in the corner.  

Muza comes trotting back, the tennis ball in his mouth. He drops it at Bucky’s feet and yaps at him, butt wiggling with the force of his tail-wagging. Bucky sighs, crouches down to pick up the ball again. “Tomorrow, and we’ll get you a nice family,” he tells Muza, before throwing the ball. Muza chases after it, claws scrabbling madly on the wooden floor.

 

* * *

 

 

At nine twenty-three the next morning, Bucky realises a few things. One, that he is running late for therapy. Two, that there is no-one else about to look after Muza, because asking someone who knows the team would mean dropping Clint in it. Three, that he’s not sure he can go without Muza anyway.

He glances at the clock, glances at the puppy that’s lying on his bed and contentedly gnawing at a treat, then curses.

“Fuck it. Come on. Suit up, animal.”

Muza goes absolutely crazy as Bucky clips him into the harness that he’d been given by the vet. He rolls over, gnawing at the leash and kicking his dumb oversized feet in the air. Bucky snorts and picks him up, opting to carry him down the stairs for the sake of efficiency. Once they’re outside, he puts Muza on the floor and immediately regrets it because the moment those paws are on the sidewalk, Muza loses his tiny, fluffy little mind. He’s so excited that Bucky’s worried he might spontaneously combust. He spins around in circles, barks at people, chews his leash, barks at birds, chases a piece of trash, barks at passing cars and is generally a massive pain.

They last about ten minutes and get about twenty yards before Bucky gives in. He scoops the puppy up and carries him all the way to the subway station, trying to text his therapist’s office with the other hand to apologize for his imminent tardiness. Muza seems just as happy in Bucky’s arms, craning his head back and licking at Bucky’s stubbled chin, tail thumping against Bucky’s abdomen.

“ _мусор_ ,” he tells the dog sternly as they’re crammed onto the subway, swaying back and forth. Muza just snuggles against him, big brown eyes looking up at Bucky like he’s the best thing since tennis balls or stolen pillows.

Buck looks heavenward and sighs.

 

* * *

 

 

His therapist does not seem to mind Bucky being late or the fact he’s bought an unruly puppy into the SHIELD offices. He says hello as he usually does, gets Bucky to sit down on a couch as he usually does, talks at Bucky as he usually does. However, this time Bucky’s got Muza to focus on which is _great._ He forgoes the couch in favour of sitting on the floor with Muza, which makes avoiding eye contact so much easier.

“So,” the therapist - Graham - says after the usual therapisty small talk which Bucky has dutifully ignored. “I’ll bite. The puppy?”

“Barton left him behind so I’m looking after it until he gets back,” Bucky says. He smiles as Muza bites down on the edge of the rug, trying to yank it across the floor. With Bucky sitting on it he’s got no hope but he’s still trying admirably. Bizarrely, it reminds Bucky of Clint. Not so much Steve - Steve would probably try for a second then fight Bucky to get him to move.

“How’s looking after something going?”

“Well he’s not dead,” Bucky shrugs.

“I set the same standard for you,” Graham says. “Barnes is still alive, so the therapy is working.”

Bucky’s mouth falls open in affront, even as his mind chooses to recall those dark, dark moments where had just had enough. “Fuck you, Graham.”

“Okay, let’s up our standards then,” Graham says, not remotely cowed by Bucky’s cursing. “What do you want for the puppy?”

Bucky frowns as Muza slumps over sideways, edge of the rug still clamped in those needle sharp teeth. Much more and he’s going to rip it. “He’s...safe with me.”

“You’re safe with the Avengers,” Graham replies. “Next.”

“Are you comparing me to an animal, doc?”

“Absolutely.”

Bucky huffs, tucking his hair behind his ear then immediately regretting it. He shakes it out again so that it hides his face as he looks down.  “Okay. I want him to go to a family that loves him.”

Graham tilts his head. “That can't be the same for you?”

“No,” Bucky says. “Love isn’t part of my programming.”

Even as he says it, he finds himself thinking about a) his friends and then b) _Clint_. The care he’s shown for Bucky, the borderline flirtatious behaviour of the past few days, the way he looks when he’s pulling off his shirt in the gym. Bucky quickly decides to ignore that thinking, because he is pretty sure that down that path lies disaster.

“Shame,” Graham says with a shrug. “I think you’d be good at it. Now, the serious question of the session is may I pet your dog?”

Bucky gestures wordlessly at Muza, but Graham doesn’t move. Verbal and explicit consent, Bucky remembers after a beat, so he makes his mouth work. “Sure. He’s not mine, but sure.”

So his therapist gets up off the couch, adjusts his slacks and kneels down to pet Muza, who responds with more tail wagging and wiggling. It makes Bucky feel strangely protective and also a little bit proud that he’s managed to help Muza get from cowering wreck to tentatively happy.

Well, shit.

Now he knows how Clint and Steve must feel.

 

* * *

 

 

When he leaves therapy, his heart promptly does a strange little skip in his chest because the day takes an unexpected turn: Clint is waiting for him in the atrium. He’s still in full Hawkeye gear and he’s got a starbucks cup in either hand. As he spots Bucky, his face breaks out into a grin, wide and happy.

“Morning sunshine!” he calls as Bucky scoops Muza up and carries him down the steps. “Oh wow, look at the dog!”

Bucky winces at Clint’s excited shout because at once all of the SHIELD agents in the vicinity turn to look around for said dog. Great. He can just imagine the memos that will be going round: _Winter Soldier on site accompanied by Hawkeye and adorable puppy, do not engage._

“He looks so happy!” Clint enthuses as Bucky and Muza get closer. Muza barks at him, trying to lean across to get at him, licking the air frantically. “Trade you for coffee?”

Bucky puts Muza down, leash still looped around his metal wrist, takes the coffees from Clint. Clint drops to his knees and is immediately smothered by scrabbling and over-excited puppy licks.

“He’s amazing!” Clint laughs. “Buck, look how great he is!”

“You here to take him?” Bucky asks casually.

“Nope,” Clint says, vigorously scratching behind Muza’s ears. “I’m here to see you, I missed you.”

Bucky’s stomach dips like he’s just missed a step. “What? Are you talking to me or the dog?”

“Both,” Clint says with a crooked grin. “Mostly you. Come on, let’s take him for a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Yeah. We can take him to the dog park, drink our coffees, maybe even hold hands on the way?”

“Clint,” Bucky interrupts, pained. “Stop with the jokes, okay?”

Clint stands up, takes his coffee back from Bucky. He dips his chin, looking at Bucky over the top of his sunglasses. “I never joke about holding hands,” he says seriously. “Or sunshine.”

And with that he’s walking towards the door, leaving Bucky stood there dumbstruck, with Muza gambolling around his feet, sliding on the polished floor.

“What the fuck,” he wonders out loud.

Muza sits down and leans back against Bucky’s legs, huffing in what Bucky takes as agreement.

 

* * *

 

He does follow Clint to the park and possibly also down the metaphorical path to disaster. They arrive at the park and Bucky has a solid minute of feeling incredibly tense as Muza pricks up his ears at the sounds of other dogs, but he remains calm and content and even makes friends with a floppy-eared beagle called Gizmo. Bucky’s fears evaporate, though he does ruefully note that the damn dog makes friends more easily than he ever could these days.

After a little more socialising, he picks the clearly tired Muza up and slips him into his jacket. They finish their drinks and start walking back towards the tower. Clint doesn’t hold his hand but does walk close enough so that their shoulders brush. Just before they’re about to head in, Bucky stops him. He doesn’t want this conversation monitored.

“What’s with all the weird…” he waves the hand that’s not holding Muza, wrinkles his nose. “Flirting?”

Clint pauses, turning to face him. “Oh good, I thought it’d take you longer to realise that that’s what it is.”

“I’m a brainwashed assassin, I’m not dumb.”

“A former brainwashed assassin,” Clint says, pointing at him.

“Missing the point.”

Clint shrugs. “I like you,” he says. “I wanted to. And I’ll keep doing it until you tell me to stop.”

Bucky has to look away. He focusses on Muza, fast asleep against his chest. “I’m a mess, Clint. That’s not something you want to hitch your wagon to.”

“My wagon does what it wants,” Clint says. “And I’m stubborn.”

“Have you really thought this through?”

“No,” Clint says. “I just woke up one morning - that day we went to fight AIM, when we rescued the animals? And before we went I came to find you and you’d made us both coffee and I just thought yes, so I asked Steve and he said he’d bash me with the shield if I hurt you but thought we’d be good together-”

“Wait, wait, _wait,_ you asked Steve?”

“Well, yeah,” Clint says like it’s obvious. “He knows you best, I wanted advice. Okay, you’re looking increasingly distressed by this, should I take that as a no?”

“No, just-” Bucky huffs. “I don’t know. I’m not _distressed_ , I’m confused.”

“That I can work with,” Clint grins. “As long as you’re confused about me and not your sexuality.”

Bucky can't help the way his mouth twitches. “Don’t worry about that. It’s just you.”

“How about we just keep doing what we’re doing and if it doesn’t work out for you then you tell me to stop and we take it from there?”

“That sounds remarkably patient for you.”

Clint groans. “I know, as soon as I said it I heard how ridiculous it sounded, knowing me I’ll be proposing before the week is out.”

Bucky does laugh at that. “Okay, before you start picking out rings, let’s go in and see how much trouble you’re in for forgetting the puppy.”

Clint shoots him a thumbs up. “Only if you protect me from Steve’s rage at my incompetence?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. Clint is far from incompetent, no matter what he tries to pretend. “Sure pal,” he says, pushing him towards the door. “Whatever you say.”

 

* * *

 

Steve doesn’t get angry, he just facepalms so hard when he sees Bucky walk in with Muza that Bucky’s honestly surprised that he doesn't break his nose. Tony and Sam both start to laugh and Natasha just fixes Clint with a _look_.

He sidles behind Bucky. “In my defence,” he begins. “No, I got nothing. But Bucky’s got a dog!”

“I’m not keeping it,” Bucky says, slumping onto the couch with Muza still tucked up against him. Clint pulls his quiver and bow off his back then sits right next to him, propping his feet up on the coffee table and leaning over to stroke a finger between Muza’s eyes and down his nose. It’s so, so gentle, just like he was with the kittens.

And just like it was with the kittens, it makes Bucky feel all strange and off guard.

“Uh, looks like the dog is keeping you,” Tony calls, disturbing the quiet, gentle moment.

“He’s not,” Bucky says, but he knows he doesn’t sound very convincing.

“You named him?” Steve asks, leaning over the back of the couch by Bucky’s head.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Well, the vet did. Muza.”

“Muza?” Natasha says. “Sounds suspiciously like _мусор_ , Bucky.”

“Uh, I may have been slightly annoyed and ranting in Russian,” Bucky says. “Sue me.”

 _“Мусор_ ,” Clint repeats. “I know that - Nat, you’ve called me that before.”

Bucky fights a mad urge to laugh. “Cruel, Nat.”

“I called him that when he was eating pizza off the floor once,” Natasha remarks. “You permanently named a puppy garbage, you’re the one in the wrong here.”

There’s a chorus of groans and indignant protests. “Bucky!” Steve says, looking offended to his very core. Almost as offended as Clint looks.

“Garbage, Nat? Really?”

“You were eating floor pizza,” Natasha says without an ounce of shame or apology. “You two really do deserve each other, you know that.”

Clint grins at Bucky. “See?”

“Shut up, Barton,” Bucky says, and Clint just laughs, reaching out to stroke Muza again, leaning sideways and setting his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Steve reaches out to ruffle Bucky’s hair and Bucky shoves him away with a scowl. Steve’s grinning as he goes and Bucky wants to tell Steve to go fuck himself but he’s too busy focussing on the way Clint is leaning into his side like it’s exactly where he wants to be.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day seems to be reserved for falling in love with Muza. Even Tony, who spends an hour complaining about claws on hardwood floors and then sits down and plays tug-of-war with Muza and his three hundred dollar Tom Ford tie. Even _Natasha_ , who carefully picks up Muza, holds him in front of her face, and then announces that she’s in love. They’re literally elbowing each other out of the way to play with him, to give him treats, to pet him. Bucky shows off the small amount of training that he and Muza have managed and everyone is suitably impressed. In fact, they’re all so impressed that Bucky feels an unwilling flicker of pride, a flicker that gets stronger as Muza looks at him, belly to the floor and nose resting on his paws as he obediently _stays_.

“Muza. Here,” Bucky says softly and Muza is off like a rocket, scrambling for Bucky and tumbling into his hands. The others all clap, like Bucky’s achieved something monumental.

“That is awesome,” Clint says, crouching down. “You could totally train him as a service dog, he’s so smart.”

“You think?” Bucky asks, a little skeptical. Muza is now rolling on his back, gnawing at Bucky’s metal fingers and generally looking a bit of a tubby idiot. “Look at this thing.”

“He’ll grow into himself,” Clint says. “Like some other guy I know, actually.”

Bucky feels his cheeks go warm. To cover, he nudges Clint with his shoulder. Possibly a little too hard as Clint ends up sprawled over the rug on his back. He’s quickly set upon by Muza, but judging by his delighted laughter, he doesn’t seem to mind.

 

* * *

 

Such is the strength of Clint’s fondness for garbage puppy, he follows Bucky up to his quarters after dinner. He plays with Muza until Muza falls asleep, then quickly follows himself, sprawled on his back on Bucky’s couch and snoring softly.

Bucky rolls his eyes but does deign to cover him with a blanket before going to his own bed. He doesn’t fall asleep straight away though; he’s too busy thinking about Muza and Clint and how Clint is just on the other side of the door. He can’t go there, he thinks, blinking at his ceiling and listening to the sleepy whuffs of Muza’s breath by his ear. Clint is a hero, and he deserves someone who can live up to that. Certainly not a broken ex-hydra operative who isn’t cleared for leaving the state alone, let alone active duty.

 _I’m sorry,_ Bucky thinks, though he’s not entirely sure who he’s apologising to.

 

* * *

 

 

He avoids Clint the next morning, keeping his eyes trained low and his body language closed. Clint seems remotely unbothered, leaving Bucky's apartment with a wave and one last fuss for Muza.

Minutes later, Bucky’s phone buzzes with a text, the obnoxious ringtone telling him it’s Clint. Wary, he opens it with his phone held some distance away like it’s a goddamn grenade, but all he finds is a single purple heart emoji.

He swallows hard around the lump in his throat, completely and utterly lost.

 

* * *

 

 

Before he can summon up the courage to go and speak to Clint, the team are hauled into SHIELD for mission debrief. The sense of bitterness and loneliness hits Bucky so hard that he breaks the coffee pot, the glass shattering under the pressure of his metal fingers.

He sinks to the floor with his knees brought up to his chest and his face hidden in his arms, breathing in and out through his nose as he tries to keep himself under control. He doesn’t know how long he sits there for.

Faint whining permeates the fog of his brain. Then he feels claws scratching at his jeans. Finally, a wet nose nudging at his hand.

He gives in, lifts his head. Muza scrambles into his lap, licking at Bucky’s face. Bucky slips his fingers into soft fur and for the first time in months he lets himself cry, Muza a comforting weight on his lap that doesn’t judge or leave or even speak. He just nuzzles at Bucky’s face and lets himself be held, waiting until Bucky feels better.

Which, unexpectedly, he finds he does.

 

* * *

 

 

That afternoon, Steve asks him to come out for hotdogs. Bucky agrees, clipping Muza into his harness and filling his backpack with the various dog-paraphernalia. He leaves without attempting to find Clint, pulling his cap low.

“Avoiding someone?” Steve asks casually as they head out into the sun.

“Yep,” Bucky says. “Don’t play dumb with me, I know you know.”

“I know everything,” Steve says.

“Sure,” Bucky sighs, setting Muza down. Muza tries to jump up at him but he holds out a single finger. “Down,” he says, and Muza drops down onto all fours. “Good,” Bucky raises, fumbling in his pockets for a treat. “Good boy, Muza.”

Steve watches, smiling faintly. “You’re good at that,” he remarks.

“Clint says he’ll be easier to rehome if he’s trained,” Bucky says. He starts walking, Muza at his ankles like a tiny fluffy shadow.

“Bullshit,” Steve says evenly. “You’re not giving him up.”

Bucky sighs. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “I can barely look after myself, let alone an eight week German shepherd. They’re five star intensity, Steve. Five stars.”

“Five star intensity?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, getting his phone out and passing it to Steve. “Look in my bookmarks. Look how much work he’s going to be. And yeah, Tony thinks he’s cute now, but these things get to be like eighty pounds.”

“I think,” Steve says, flicking through Bucky’s phone. “You are the exact right person to look after him. You know what he’s been through.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “He’s a dog.”

“And he needs a good owner who knows what it’s like to be treated not so good, someone who will be able to give him a routine and focus-”

“What like you and Clint did for me?”

Steve grins and hands the phone back. “Maybe.”

Bucky snatches the phone back. Steve hides a smile and they walk in silence to the park. It’s not a bad silence, per se. It rarely is with Steve these days. Maybe Bucky is at that point where he can start to push himself a little, to change it up some. But then again, he ended up sat in the floor crying not six hours ago.

“So,” Steve says as they park themselves on a bench. Muza sits by Bucky’s feet, sniffing around and yapping occasionally as other dogs amble past.

“So?”

“Clint.”

Ah. Bucky’s not sure what to say there. Clint’s flirting has been constantly on his mind and when he can think about it without his own negative self-image jumping in and wrecking it, he thinks that it could actually maybe tentatively be a thing. It makes him nervous though, because things don’t tend to work out well for him and it’d be messy if this went down the pan.

“Do we have to talk about it?”

“Not if you don’t want,” Steve says. He digs his hand into Bucky’s pocket, pulls out a treat and holds it out for Muza.

“Steve, no,” Bucky protests. “Make him sit at least. Muza, sit.”

Muza promptly parks his butt on the grass, eyes glued to the treat. Steve hands it over, ruffling Muza’s ridiculous floppy ears. “Aren’t you a good boy? Yes you are. Oh my, there’s a great dane over there, shall we go say hello? That’s how big you’ll be one day-”

Steve gets up and reaches for Muza’s leash. Feeling and combination of petty and a little bit over-protective, Bucky resists for a moment but then gives in and hands him over. Muza will be safe with Steve, and if he takes Muza to make friends then Bucky can sit there and sulk.

Though if Steve dares call him out on his sulking, Bucky will actually fight him. And even if the dumb garbage fluffball clearly loves Steve, Bucky’s pretty sure that Muza would have his back.

 

* * *

 

“Do not give the garbage dog human food.”

“But Buck, he’s so small.”

“I repeat. Do _not_ give the garbage dog human food.”

“Just a bit-”

“Clint, put that down or I will stab you, so help me.”

Across the table, Tony raises a hand. “Is stabbing how you assassins show affection?”

“Not usually,” Natasha says. “But he is dealing with Clint.”

Bucky and Clint both give Natasha the evil eye but she quite predictably isn’t remotely cowed. She just smiles at them and goes back to chatting to Sam, eyes on him as she cuts up her steak with a precision that would make most men nervous. Sam is clearly a lunatic because he doesn’t even blink. Tony makes a point never to sit next to Natasha ever, but he then chooses to sit next to Steve and steal his food, which is also something only a crazy person would do.

Honestly, if it wouldn’t make Steve both unhappy and unbearable, Bucky would stop coming down for dinner with the rest of the team.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Clint trying to sneak another chunk of steak off of his plate. Bucky reaches over and grabs his wrist, quick enough to make Clint jump.

“I mean it!” Bucky insists. “It’ll upset his stomach and I don’t want him begging.”

“Alright, alright,” Clint says, letting the meat go so it plops back onto his plate. “You’re a bossy mom.”

There’s a smattering of laughter around the table. Bucky ignores it and lets go of Clint’s arm, wiggling his toes to feel the warm weight of Muza who is slumped across his feet.

“Motherhood suits you,” Tony says, raising his glass. “A toast to Bucky?”

“No, not a toast to Bucky,” Bucky says, exasperated. “Steve, put your goddamn beer down-”

“I’m surprised actually,” Sam says. “You’ve taken that dog under your wing-”

“Under his shiny metal arm.”

“Yes, Clint, under his shiny metal wing,” Sam amends. “I thought you’d have just handed it over to a shelter.”

“Come on,” Bruce says absent-mindedly, eyes on the book at his elbow. “You wouldn’t have kept a pup back for him if you thought he was just going to-”

Even as Bucky abruptly connects the dots and goes very, very tense, there’s a thud, the plates and cutlery all jump and then Bruce is cut off mid-sentence, looking indignantly at Tony; Natasha, Thor and Sam fall quiet; Steve grimaces and rubs his brow; Clint tries to slide discreetly off his chair.

Bucky reaches out and grabs hold of the hood of Clint’s jacket, yanking him back. “Clint?” he says dangerously, feeling his heart rate pick up. On his feet, Muza huffs and shuffles, licking at Bucky’s ankle. “Care to explain why Bruce just said that _you kept a pup back?”_

“Ummm,” Clint says, flailing to get his balance. “No, I got nothing.”

“Okay, that kick was justified,” Bruce says to Tony, leaning down to rub his leg.

“I would never kick you for no reason,” Tony says, sounding offended. “I wouldn’t risk a code green for something so trivial. The payoff would not be worth the inevitable structural damage.”

“What would be worth inevitable structural damage?” Thor asks. “I feel this is something we can explore.”

Bucky tunes out the debate and turns his attention all on Clint. “I’m waiting, asshole.”

“Well, maybe I lied a little bit, but come on! You got an amazing garbage dog out of it! What more do you want?”

Bucky lets go of Clint’s hood; he yelps as he falls forwards and onto the floor in an untidy sprawl of limbs, his chin hitting the tile with a painful sounding thud. Bucky simply gets up, bends down to scoop Muza up.

“Bucky, don’t be like that-” Steve begins half-heartedly.

“And you, you bastard,” Bucky snaps. “You’re a lying asshole.”

Clint clambers up onto his knees.“We just wanted-”

“Save it,” Bucky cuts across him. “I don’t care.”

Holding Muza against his chest, he stalks off without another word and without looking back.

 

* * *

 

 

He ignores both Clint and Steve for a full week. He vents his anger at being lied to by spending hours in the gym, going out running and training Muza. Muza adds ‘ _drop_ ,’ ‘ _wait_ ’ and ‘ _around_ ’ to his repertoire of commands, seemingly delighted to show off whenever Bucky calls on him. He’s growing like a weed too; when he takes him back to the vets he’s astonished to find that Muza has already gained four pounds in weight. The vet seems pleased but does warn Bucky that Muza seems set to grow up into an incredibly large example of a German Shepherd.

Bucky just shrugs. He reaches down to pet Muza, stroking his ears. One of them is starting to grow into its pointy adult form but mostly he just looks ridiculous.

“Garbage,” Bucky tells him as he hefts him up into his arms for the subway ride home. “You’re getting heavy.”

Muza just happily licks at his face, his one half-pointed ear poking Bucky in the chin and his tail thumping against his stomach. Bucky hears a few ‘awws’ from a group of women a bit further along the carriage and resists the urge to bang his head against the window.

“You need to grow up and look fierce, you’re ruining my rep,” he tells Muza.

Five minutes later, and he’s kneeling down so a small boy can pet Muza, cackling with delight as Muza licks his hands and wriggles towards him.

“Good dog,” the boy says, clearly delighted. “Good, good dog.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, and the boy beams at him. “He’s a good dog.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, he’s mid-introducing Muza to his newly purchased crate when the Avengers alarm goes off. Luckily, Muza doesn’t seem scared by the noise - far from it. He pricks up the one ear that he can, points his nose at the ceiling and howls along with the noise. Tail thumping, he stops, looks at Bucky and then howls again.

“Okay, quiet is the next thing we learn,” Bucky grins, reaching into the crate for the tennis ball. “Come on, Muza. Ten minutes before it’s time for go for therapy, you wanna play?”

The alarm dies down as Bucky tosses the ball across the room. Muza flails and runs after it and Bucky’s phone starts ringing with the ‘Dangerzone’ ringtone he’s assigned to Steve. For a moment he considers ignoring him some more, but he finds that doesn’t really want to. He’s missed Steve and Clint and now his anger is mostly gone, he can _maybe_ see that the lying about Muza was maybe for the greater good.

He takes a deep breath. Checks that he feels okay. Picks up the phone. “Hey, Cap. Off to save the world?”

“Yeah, only to Illinois though. You going to be okay?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, and this time he finds he means it. “Me and Muza are going to therapy and then we’ve got a date with Daisy at the park.”

“Daisy the great dane?” Steve asks, sounding mournful. “Oh man, I love Daisy.”

“I’ll take you a picture,” Bucky says. Muza reappears with the ball and drops it at Bucky’s feet without him having to say anything. Bucky’s about to pick it up when Muza yaps and takes off towards the door, evidently excited by something. Bucky twists around and his stomach lurches as he sees Clint edging in around the door, looking guilty. Bucky feels himself aching with want, even as Clint is shifting his weight back onto his other foot, clearly intending to leave.

“Didn’t want to go without saying goodbye,” he mutters. “I’ll go-”

“Wait,” Bucky says, holding up a hand to try and make Clint stop moving. “Steve, I’ll call you back. Go, defend freedom, punch a Nazi and all that jazz.”

“Gotcha.”

Bucky hangs up and slowly stands up, folding his arms across his chest. “Muza, heel,” he says curtly. Muza does an abrupt one eighty and comes straight back to him, plonking himself down by his feet and looking up at Bucky. Bucky acknowledges the obedience by dropping his fingers so Muza can briefly lick at them.

Clint stares at him for a moment, clearly wounded by Muza’s allegiance. Then he swallows hard and opens his mouth. “So I’m going to Illinois and I want to say I miss you and I’m sorry I lied to you I just wanted to do something to help you so you didn’t feel so alone and I don’t regret doing it but I’m sorry I had to lie-”  

“Clint, breathe,” Bucky says, unfolding his arms to rub at the back of his head. “It’s okay. Really.”

“Really really?” Clint asks, looking suspicious. “You were super mad.”

“I don’t like being lied to,” Bucky says. “So yeah, I was allowed to be super mad. But I get it.”

Clint is still clearly wary. “Natasha said you said you were going to stab me.”

Bucky’s not sure what part of his brain decides his next move. It’s something to do with the look on Clint’s face and the memory of the flirting and a sudden explicable need to put things right.

So he walks forwards, takes Clint’s face in his hands and gently kisses him right on the mouth.

Clint makes a vaguely startled noise but Bucky now has hold of his elbows so he can’t go to far. Heart feeling like it’s suddenly taken up sky-diving as a new hobby, Bucky slowly pulls back, nudging Clint’s nose with his own. Opening his eyes, he waits for Clint to do the same. When he does, he looks a little dazed and confused, but at least the suspicion is gone.

“Whoa,” he says weakly, and Bucky huffs out a laugh.

“We’re good,” Bucky says. “Well, I’m still a mess but we’re good, the flirting is good and Muza is good.”

Muza hears his name and barks happily, his tail a blur on the floor behind him.

“And the kissing is good?” Clint ventures.

“The kissing is good,” Bucky confirms. “Now go. Look after Steve. I’m going to therapy to complain about my feelings of helplessness and frustration whenever I get left behind.”

“You do that,” Clint says. “Can I kiss you again before you go?”

Bucky nods, and Clint does.

* * *

 

 

“Well,” says Graham, utterly dispensing with the small talk this time around. He doesn't even try to make Bucky sit on the couch. “You seem different.”

“I’ve had a breakthrough,” Bucky says, on his knees in the office. “Look. Muza, sit. Lie. Speak.”

Muza sits, drops down onto his belly and then barks, butt wiggling as he stays in place. “At ease,” Bucky tells him and Muza promptly throws himself into Bucky’s lap for fuss, nosing as his pockets to try and find either treats or his ball.

“You trained him?” Graham asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, rolling Muza onto his back and rubbing his belly. He doesn’t look at Graham as he says, “I’m keeping him.”

“Yes?”

Bucky nods. “I don’t feel so bad ‘bout being left behind when I’ve got him. Like, looking after him and training him is my mission right now, so it doesn’t matter as much that I don’t go with the others.”

“Makes sense,” Graham says. “Pretty self-aware of you to think of it like that. Tell me more?”

Bucky huffs but obliges, sliding his fingers into Muza's thick fur. “He’s staying with me and I can't take him on the jet or anything until he’s grown up. I’m gonna get Tony to make him armor or some shit. He’ll be my sidekick. Help with search and rescue after disasters and stuff, maybe.”

“Sensible,” Graham says, like the Winter Soldier announcing he’s training himself a mission-ready service dog is something he hears everyday. “How long until he’s fully grown?”

“Like two years?” Bucky shrugs. “So maybe in two years he’ll be grown up enough for me to take him on some missions. Not where there's violence, I won't let him get hurt. And maybe its best if I avoid violence for a while, too. Like what I said, rescue stuff. Helping.”

“Two years," Graham repeats. "Gives you plenty of time to make sure you’re ready too.”

Bucky just shrugs. “You want to play fetch with him? I bought his ball.”

Graham is up off his couch quicker than Bucky has ever seen him move, hand already outstretched for the ball. Bucky tosses it over and leans down to press a kiss to the top of Muza’s head between his ears.

“I’m done talking for today,” he says to Graham. “That’s enough, right?”

“That’s more than you’ve given me in all the weeks you’ve been coming to therapy,” Graham says as he tosses the ball across the office. “That’ll do just fine, Bucky.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s in the park when the Avengers get back from their mission. He’s relaxing in the shade with Muza panting happily by his feet when his phone starts yelling _‘t-t-t-target’_ at him. He scrambles for it so quickly that he’s a little embarrassed, cheeks going warm as he checks Clint’s text.

_‘I’m back where are you you said thered be more kissing it’s been a week im dying.’_

Bucky’s mouth curls up into a smile. “You never heard of punctuation, Barton?” he mutters as he texts back. _‘In the park with Muza.’_

His phone pings back almost straight away. _‘Coming to you DONT MOVE.’_

Bucky shoves his phone away and bends down to stroke Muza. “You all tired out?” he asks him. “You fetched like a million times, you must have run like twenty miles.”

Muza licks at his fingers, leaning more heavily into Bucky’s legs. He’s still growing amazingly fast, most obviously in his ears. They both point upwards now and look way too big for him. Bucky can only hopes he grows into them, as well as his ridiculous feet. He takes Muza around to the water fountain, nodding at the owner of the labrador pup that comes up up say hello. Muza is an absolute gentleman when it comes to other dogs, always sniffing politely and letting them have their turn before testing the waters about playing. Bucky’s kind of ridiculously proud.

There’s a yell from the other side of the dog park and Bucky tenses, whipping around to see what it is, ready to snatch Muza up if there’s a dog that’s not being entirely friendly. Thankfully there's nothing of the sort. Less thankfully, the commotion is down to the fact Iron Man has just swooped in carrying Hawkeye by his wrists, literally dropping him off in the park.

“Subtle,” Bucky sighs, exasperated. His hopes that _he_ goes unnoticed go up in a blaze of red and gold as Tony swoops over to hover just above him. “You two made up?” he asks, expression inscrutable through the faceplate though the glee in his voice is definitely audible.

“None of your business,” Bucky says. “Go away, you’re scaring the dogs.”

“Your dog isn’t scared of anything,” Tony says dismissively. “But I hear you, not every doggo has a steely-eyed assassin at their side. Alright, have fun, don’t forget to use protection.”

“I will punch you even if you’re in the amour!” Bucky yells as Tony takes off. He shakes his head, throwing an apologetic look over at the owner of the labrador. “Sorry about him.”

The woman just nods, mouth hanging open and eyes like saucers.

“Bucky!”

Bucky about turns as Clint runs up, literally skidding to a halt in front of him. He’s still fully in uniform, bow in hand, like he couldn’t wait before coming to find Bucky. The thought makes Bucky oddly happy. Muza is clearly delighted too, prancing about on the spot and turning in circles at Clint’s feet.

“Oh my god,” Clint says, head going between Bucky and Muza. “His ears! He’s growing up!”

“You know, a fella might begin to think that you only like him for his dog,” Bucky says.

Clint grins. “I knew the way to your heart was through puppy-eyes. Literal puppy eyes.”

Bucky laughs. He bends down to heft Muza into his arms, stepping close so Muza can lick at Clint’s chin.

“Gross,” Clint says happily. “Kinda wanted kisses from you instead though.”

“I don’t do dating,” Bucky says abruptly. “I don’t want to be in that weird no-man’s land. We either do this or we don’t.”

“You asking me to go steady, Barnes?”

“I’m gonna drop all twenty-nine pounds of dog on you if you don’t give me a straight answer.”

Clint leans in and kisses him, hard. It steals the air from Bucky’s chest and makes him feel excited and nervous in the best way. He kisses Clint back, probably pushing the boundary for what is acceptable in public. It’s a small mercy that he’s got his hands full, so he doesn’t end up breaking any indecency laws.

Clint pulls back, hand resting on Bucky’s jaw. “I will be honoured to go steady with you and help raise your garbage dog,” he says seriously. “Only if I get to be the dad though.”

“Didn’t you hear, we can both be dads in this day and age,” Bucky says and Clint cackles with laughter. “Want to go buy overpriced hotdogs?”

Clint grins, reaching up to scratch Muza’s ears.  “Yeah, I do,” he says as Bucky crouches to drop Muza back on the ground. When he straightens up, Clint holds out his hand, eyebrow raised in challenge.

Bucky loops Muza’s leash around his wrist, looks down at his panting-smiling face like the damn dog approves of what’s going on. With his free hand, he reaches out to take Clint’s, threading their fingers together. “Alright,” he says, mouth hitching up into a smile as Muza barks at his feet. “It’s a date.”

  



End file.
